


Electric Love

by IndraraSkye



Series: Poor Stiles [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Did I mention the physical torture?, Future Fic, Graphic depiction of torture, Happy Ending, M/M, No Sex, Not cannon-typical violence, Rated E for F bombs, Rated E for torture, Stiles wins in the end, Stiles-centric, awesome Alpha Derek Hale, seriously--lots of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-22 21:30:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13175589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndraraSkye/pseuds/IndraraSkye
Summary: Stiles has been kidnapped and is suffering for it when a certain former alpha bursts onto the scene and saves him, healing him and showing a whole new side of himself.





	Electric Love

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously, mind the tags. All kinds of things get done to our poor Stiles (short of any sexual assault). If torture is a squick, stay far away. If torture is not a squick, I hope you enjoy the story! It's not beta read, so hopefully there aren't too many scary typos and errors.

Twenty milliamps of electricity jolting through his body was less than pleasant. He felt fairly certain he could cross _electricity play_ off his list of sexual kinks to explore now. He opened the one eye still capable of opening and stared ahead of him at the opposite wall of the storage unit he was strapped to. Not that it did any good since he was in complete darkness, but it was something to do, anyway. He’d glance around the unit, but whoever these bastards were had actually strapped his neck tight against the wall, as well. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about developing even worse posture than he had already. He was strapped pretty solidly in an upright position and had been for the past however long he’d been here already. He wondered what else was in store for him. So far things had been pretty restricted to feet, fists, and electricity. He wasn’t sure what else they had to pull out from their box of magic tricks. Whatever it was, he really hoped someone realized something was wrong and found him before they got to it. 

The unit door grated open with a loud _jank_ that rang in his ears. Fluorescent light flooded in, blinding him and causing him to squeeze his eye closed. A drafty breeze wafted in, blowing against his naked, damp skin and irritating his myriad bruises. He shivered against the breeze and the gooseflesh raising across his body, all the short hairs across his exposed flesh standing at attention in anticipation of what may be coming. “I’ve still got nothing you’re looking for,” he croaked.

“Oh, Mr. Stilinski, I’m fairly sure that’s not true.” The female voice that always spoke to him contained a clipped British-Indian lilt that he recognized only because his Chem lab partner was an Indian over on scholarship from England. She had been freakishly into soccer. He missed listening to her drone on as they measured chemicals now that he found himself mostly naked and strapped to the side of a storage unit that lacked temperature controls in late November while a random group of people was torturing him for information that he honestly didn’t have. 

“Look, give me a blanket and some water, I’ll make up whatever you want.” His voice rasped. It felt like his throat was going to fracture into thousands of little pieces if he tried to talk again. How long ago had it been that they’d given him that sip from the bottle of water? How long had he been here already? He’d been on his way back to the dorm from the library and it had been late, but it certainly wasn’t his first time taking that route late at night. It was well lit. He knew something about what went bump in the night, so he prided himself on paying attention to his surroundings. Somehow these assholes had still managed to get the jump on him, and their chloroform was not for the weak. He’d no sooner smelled it when he passed right out. He’d woken up strapped to a ridged aluminum wall with some sort of reinforced padded cloth straps. They’d stripped him down to his boxers and they had a spotlight shining on him, meaning he couldn’t see shit. They'd kicked him with steel toed boots and punched the shit out of him for a while and then questioned him on Derek Hale, of all beings. Derek Hale, whom he hadn’t seen since just before his junior year of high school. Derek Hale, who pretty effectively fucked right off and never looked back. Derek Hale, who spent one whole weekend making him feel like the most glorious person on the planet and the rest of the time they knew each other pushing him as far away as humanly possible. Why in the hell did these people think he knew anything about Derek Hale?

They’d brought in what Stiles had thought was a car battery a few…hours ago. He was pretty sure it’d been longer than minutes. He didn’t think it had been days since the electricity had started. They’d gotten him about three times, anyway, all spaced out so they don’t kill him. He longed for the days of Gerard Argent when they’d started electrocuting him, but then remembered that Gerard had done the same thing to poor Boyd and Erica. 

“Stiles,” the British/Indian woman crooned, “just tell us what we need to know. All this can stop. All this will stop. We’ll free you. Just tell me.”

“Water,” Stiles croaked. “Give me water.”

The spotlight turned on, which was just fine since he still had his one good eye closed tightly. A fist smacked against the left side of his jaw so hard he felt it dislocate. Pain screamed from his gum line. He wondered if he might have just lost some teeth. All he could taste and smell was blood. He spit the blood out of his mouth, but didn’t feel anything solid fly out with the blood and spittle. That was a good thing for his teeth, then. 

Something jagged, possibly barbed scraped across his bottom left rib, breaking skin in ragged lines. He winced and bit his tongue to keep from whimpering. 

“Where is he, Stiles?”

“What, no electricity this time? You know how turned on I get when you clamp those things to my nipples, hot stuff.”

The thing cutting into his skin was definitely barbed. It broke a crooked line up his right side. He wheezed out a pained breath.

“Mr. Stilinski, we can do better than electricity to get you off. I’d hate to get predictable, you know.”

The barb drove down his left thigh and he cried out, slumping as much as he could.

“Tell me, Mr. Stilinski. Tell me where that damned alpha is.”

“I don’t know,” Stiles panted out. “I told you already, I don’t know. I haven’t known for years. And he's not an alpha.” There was no slumping. There was no relief from the pain of the jagged cuts. He seriously doubted his captors were going to worry about silly little things like sepsis, either. He remembered worrying when he was younger that he was going to die because of Derek Hale. He remembered wondering if he’d be willing to die for Derek Hale after that weekend, no matter how much he pushed. Now he guessed he knew the answer to that.

“That’s a shame. Bring it in.”

Stiles opened his eye, which proved to be a mistake. He squinted and winced against the bright spotlight, seeing nothing but the bright colored spots in his vision that level of light forced into being. He closed his eye again, accepting that there was going to be more pain of some sort or another. Something heavier than he’d ever experienced crashed down on his left foot. The pain was so intense and blinding that he heard more than felt the bones and cartilage in his foot shatter. He wasn’t sure if the physical pain or the sound of the snaps and pops and shatters caused him to dry heave stomach acid, but dry heave stomach acid he did. Stomach acid on dried, cracked, split lips was slightly annoying.

“Still. Don’t. Know.”

The smell of burned pot roast registered in his olfactory center about a moment before his knee registered as ice cold—like what ice would feel like if it stuck to his finger. He opened his eye and looked down as far as he could around the neck restraint. They were holding a lit blow torch to his knee. Of course they were holding a lit blow torch to his knee. Why would they not be? A velvety black pillow moved itself across Stiles’s brain. He let it, embracing it and falling into the darkness.

___

Needles and pins. He had needles and pins all over him. He was back in the dark, which seemed fitting. His knee and his right thigh felt hot and crackly, like they’d never cool off again. His left foot couldn’t support the weight on it, bending in at an angle that shouldn’t have been possible and radiating the kind of pain that Peter had always threatened Stiles with but never delivered on. The cuts they’d inflicted before the burns and the smashing still stung against the air blowing over them. He could feel the warm blood dripping from them. They’d left him to bleed out, and he realized that he didn’t know anymore whether or not he could attribute the woozy feeling in his head to the massive, overwhelming pain or blood loss. That, more than anything, freaked him the fuck out. There was no getting out of this. Not this time. Not for him. He was going down. He hadn’t even made it to twenty. He’d never receive his degree. He’d never tell his father what a great job he’d done. He’d never tell Scott that he knew he’d tried. He’d never see Lydia smile her sarcastic smile again. He’d never teach the baby wolves the joy of research. He’d never bury the hatchet with Malia. He’d never tell Derek how he really felt about everything. He shuddered out a choked sob.

“Oh good. You’re awake.” 

He hated that voice. He hated that voice so very, very much. How long had he been out? He didn’t acknowledge the woman, hoping she’d just go away. She didn’t go away, apparently. That ice cold heat settled against the jagged cut on his other thigh, bringing streams of tears down his cheeks. The blow torch ran the length of his cut, up and down again, and he screamed and growled in rage and pain, his eyes rolling skyward in a silent prayer to a god who apparently didn’t exist. The blow torch repeated its torture over the cuts to his right side and his left rib. He screamed through it as much as he could, but unconsciousness took him before the end of it. Unconsciousness was bliss.

He woke up in ugly, bitter, crushing agony, but he could make out shapes in the hazy gray light that currently surrounded him. He was laying down. He was in wrist and ankle restraints, but he was laying down. Had someone found him? Had the pack rescued him? They may have restrained him to keep him from further hurting himself! He laughed, but it came out sounding like a half sob. “Scott? Scott, where are you?” 

A dirty rag landed over his face, covering it completely. Not Scott and the gang, then.

“One more time, Stiles. Where. Is. Derek. Hale.”

This shit was unbelievable. Why did they think he was going to just change his tune after punching and kicking and smashing and fire and cutting and electrocution? “I. Don’t. Know. Why do you need him so badly, anyway?”

Water splashed over the lower half of the rag over his face, rushing up into his nose and down into his mouth, which he couldn’t get closed. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t swallow. His chest constricted. His lungs expanded against his will. The water was cold against the rag and his skin, the soaked rag rasping against his wet skin, abrading it. Stiles sputtered and spit, trying to scream for it to stop. The water sloshed and spilled for what seemed like hours before it stopped and the rag was ripped from his face. He gurgled up the water, spitting and breathing. His heart wouldn’t slow down, pounding and threatening to rip right out of his chest. 

“Are you sure you can’t tell us anything useful, Stiles?”

“I wish I could! I don’t--”

Someone tossed the rag back over his face and the deluge of water began again. He’d never wanted to know what drowning felt like. Now he knew. He sputtered out, trying desperately not to swallow the water filling his mouth and nostrils, but he knew it was a lost battle so he slumped against the bench he was strapped to. At least he could end it now. He inhaled and they pulled the rag off his face. He shook his head instinctively, forcing the water out of his system as much as he could. Someone swung a whiffle bat right into his head shake. Stiles went under to the sound of ringing bells.

He woke up with that damn spotlight shining in his face again. He was chained to a chair, which was an improvement. He took a moment to feel completely terrible that being chained to a chair was an improvement in his life. “You know, it’s not going to matter what you do to me. My answer isn’t actually going to change. I don’t know anything. If you want to know about Chem 101 or George Eliot, I’m your man. I can probably even give you the basics on forensic pathologies, if you want. That’s all I got, though. I will swear it on anything you find sacred. I’ll swear it on everything I find sacred…Hello? Oh, so you’re not going to talk to me? Fine. I didn’t actually want to talk to you anyway.”

Stiles sat there in silence for the next…ever. It felt like forever, anyway. He tried counting the seconds, but somewhere around 500 he missed a beat and had to start over. He gave up after trying to recount four times. It was exhausting, and the light was bright in his eye. Every so often the spot light would get impossibly brighter, blinding him even with his eye closed. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to this brightening, no discernible pattern. God forbid he might be able to keep time by something. God forbid he get any sleep. Torture wouldn’t be torture if he slept through it, he supposed. Nobody said a word to him. Nobody came and checked on him. He was famished. If he didn’t get food soon, his stomach was going to flip inside out and digest itself for the nutritional value. He probably swallowed some of that water during the waterboarding, so at least he had that going for him, but he had no idea how long ago that was and it wasn’t going to be nearly enough to keep him going. His foot still sent shockwaves of pain every time he even thought about it. 

Scott knelt down in front of him. He blinked twice, because he hadn’t heard the door grate open or footsteps on the cold cement floor. He hadn’t heard screams or cries or growls or howls or gunshots or the sounds of people getting their heads ripped off. Sure, he couldn’t hear much over the ringing in his ears or the rushing waves of surf in his head that probably signaled massive brain trauma, but he’d have thought he’d hear a fight like the one that would have taken place if the pack had come to rescue him.

“Scott?”

Scott smiled at him, those reassuring puppy dog brown eyes twinkling. “It’s alright, Stiles. I’m here now. We don’t have much time. Can you walk?”

Stiles closed his eye and let out the biggest sigh of relief he could given the state of his body at that moment. “No. I can’t. There’s no way, Scott. Tell me you brought back up, because you’re going to have to carry me out of here.”

Scott nodded, glancing toward the door to the unit. Stiles had no idea how he could see anything with that damn spotlight still on. “I have back up outside. We just have to make it to them. You look terrible, Stiles. Maybe we should…Maybe we should go see Derek. He’ll know how to fix you.”

Stiles rested his chin on his chest, still wishing for a sudden, quick death. “That would be great, Scott. Do you know how to find him? Is there some sort of network that I’m not privy to? Please, just get me out of here right now and we can worry about the rest later. I don’t know who these people are, but they’re whack jobs.”

“What do they want? Why did they take you?”

Stiles shook his head. He just wanted to get out of here. Please, god, just let Scott get him out of here. They could sort it all out later. “I don’t know. Something about Derek. They don’t believe that I don’t know where he is. They’ve just about killed me. You’d think they’d have started believing me somewhere along the way. Let’s just go, dude. Please. Please. I am literally begging you right now. I would get down on my knees to do it, but one of them is currently burned to all hell and probably missing some skin. Get me out of here!” He was shaking in the seat, though he didn’t know whether it was from the physical pain that was plaguing him or the adrenaline spike from actually seeing the possibility of living through this. “Please.” Tears followed the tracks they’d created over the course of his time here, flowing in stilts and halts. He was dry enough that even his tears were running out.

“Oh, Stiles, why can’t you just work with us?” Scott shook his head, his dopey face turning disappointed. Stiles raised his head and looked at Scott, squinting his eye. Scott smiled at him, pity playing across his features. “Nothing here’s going to change, Stiles. Not soon, anyway. You should have worked with us. Your Scott could have carried you out of here. He would have carried you all the way to Derek Hale. Now, though.” Scott tsked. Stiles didn’t understand what was going on. 

Scott’s hands shifted into his beta hands, his fingernails extending into those long, razor sharp claws that Stiles had watched tear into baddies before. “This is going to hurt, Stiles. I’m sorry that you’ve forced me to do this. I’ll offer you one last chance: Where’s Derek?”

Stiles shook his head, his body going slack against the chair in realization. Scott wasn’t going to rescue him. Scott was working for them. Scott was…Scott couldn’t be. Scott hated the bad guys. Scott had turned against Stiles, even, when he’d thought he was a bad guy. He’d—he’d turned against Stiles before. What's to say he wouldn't do it again? Oh god, he’d turned against Stiles again. This time, he was fine with killing him. Why? What had he done? He just didn’t understand.

Scott glared at Stiles. “Have it your way, then.” He reared his hand back and then swung it into Stiles’s stomach, claws extended. They punctured his skin and dug into his abdominal muscles. He rasped out all the air in his body, slamming his tailbone into the back of the chair he was chained to. He sucked air in as quick and as deep as he could, the burn and the sting of the foreign objects still in his abdomen working against the inhale. The claws ripped out of his torso and slashed across his chest, the cuts not deep, but not quite shallow. The slashes burned like alcohol had been splashed in them when the breeze hit them. Stiles couldn’t catch his breath, and the shallow gasps he forced in dried his mouth out even more. 

Scott slashed down Stiles’s left arm, flaying through the skin from his shoulder to his elbow. Stiles slumped down, passing out again.

He woke up fastened to the damn wall again. He didn’t understand why they didn’t just kill him and be done with it. At least this time he was chained up facing the wall. He could turn his face and lean his head against the wall. Maybe this was their way of letting him finally get some actual rest on purpose. He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eye, wondering if there was some way he could kill himself with reinforced cloth restraints and the strongest ridged aluminum wall on the planet. Several whips connected with his back simultaneously. He screeched, arching into the wall and biting his lip. Something sharp on the end of each whip grabbed at the edges of his skin, dragging over small arches before whipping back. They flailed him again and again, until he could no longer scream, until his voice fled the scene completely and all he could do was open his mouth and wheeze. The mangled flesh of his back knotted and swelled and separated from the tissue it was supposed to cover and protect. Ligaments in his back tore and snapped. He realized that he should feel more pain than he felt. He wondered why it didn’t hurt more as he hung from reinforced cloth restraints and let the cool metal counteract the high heat of his flushed cheek. He wondered if it was all finally coming to an end. 

Something large and heavy thunked against the unit door, shaking the flimsy metal. A second something just as large and heavy followed suit. Gunfire rang out in the hall. Stiles wondered if the gunfire was real. Stiles wondered if any of this was real. He missed Scott, even if his friend had turned on him. The door ripped off, which he was lucid enough to recognize was damn impressive...If the door had actually ripped off. He wondered if he was dead already. Where had Scott gone? Why had Scott hurt him?

A draft hit his back, searing and scorching his flayed, mangled flesh. He cowered against the metal wall, scrunching in as close as he could and wondering if he was just imagining the burning, wondering if his back was actually on fire. He had the vague notion that he should probably care more about the answer to that. He heard an _oomph_ and a crack.

“Jesus Christ.”

His eyelid flew open. He recognized that rumbly growl. He knew that rumbly growl. That rumbly growl couldn’t possibly be there. That rumbly growl shouldn’t be there. They were looking for that rumbly growl.

“D’r’k?” Stiles’s throat was as cracked and broken as the rest of his distorted body. Apparently vowels were a thing that was beyond him. 

“Easy, Stiles.” The growl was getting closer to him. He needed for Derek to really be behind him. He needed for Derek to not physically hurt him. He didn’t think he could handle Derek hurting him right now. Derek was distant. Derek was gruff. Derek protected him. He sent up a prayer and a grunt that Derek was really there and didn’t want Stiles dead like Scott did. 

“Y’ der?” 

Large hands settled over his own. They felt real. They were warm and calloused and so soothing against Stiles’s skin. He needed them to be real. Scott had been so real, too, though. He wanted to believe that Scott hadn’t been there, but he could still feel the slashes and the punctures and the loose skin from Scott’s claws. He leaned back against Derek and then hissed in pain. His back was entirely fucked. Somebody was definitely behind him.

“It’s alright, Stiles. I’m here now. The suck is going to continue for a little bit because I’ve got to get you out of here, but I promise you’ll be okay. I’ll make sure you’re okay. I’ve got you now.” Derek’s hands slid down his own and sliced the cloth around his wrists in half, freeing his upper body. Stiles collapsed, his foot not able to take any weight at all and his body refusing to react to anything anymore. Someone caught him and lowered him gently. Something that looked like Derek bent over him and sliced at the ankle restraints, freeing him completely from that stupid metal wall. He wasn't entirely sure it was Derek. He had been sure it was Scott, but then Scott almost killed him.

“Y’ der?” Stiles asked again, his voice thick and slurred, sounding sleep heavy.

The thing that looked like Derek smiled gently down at him. “I’m right here. I’m going to pick you up, and this is going to be horrible for you, and I’m so sorry.”

“D’r’k?” Stiles rasped again. He didn’t know who was actually there, and he was having problems deciding whether it mattered or not. His head felt heavy, every part of his body vied for the right to proclaim _worst agony ever_ , and he just really wanted it all to be over with. He needed an end, a finality. There was no way he was going to live through everything they’d done to him. 

“I’ve got you.”

Arms wrapped around Stiles’s bruised and torn shoulders and burned and exposed knees. Stiles hissed and half squawked in protest and misery. He could feel his burned knee crackling with the movement and the contact, tissue that should never know the sensation of touch feeling the pressure of direct contact. The exposed nerves across his shoulders and upper back fired in a continuous pattern of sparking torment, each one lighting up like a thousand concentrated hornet stings. He wanted to cry, but he didn’t have any more tears. They just weren’t physically there anymore. 

The thing with Derek’s face lifted him off the ground, stretching his back in what should have been a pleasant bow but was actually the tearing and snapping of every piece of soft tissue in Stiles’s back—at least, that’s what it felt like. He whimpered, sniffing several times in an effort to equalize something, anything. Derek’s voice shushed him, promised him Derek would make everything right again. They must have been moving quickly, because bouncing and jarring rattled his joints and shook his extremities. Even his earlobes throbbed in protest. His stomach bubbled and gurgled, threatening him with a bout of nausea even though he couldn’t remember the last food or drink he’d actually had. He clenched his jaw and tried to ride this rescue—was it a rescue?—out. 

The scenery around him hazed in and out of view in a woozy, shaky fashion, like watching one of those B-rated handheld camera-angle movies that was shot by someone who didn’t know how to focus a camera lens. The gurgling in his stomach won out and he heaved in the Derek-thing’s arms. The coppery heat of blood and the bitter taste of bile filled his mouth, trickling out of one corner of his lips.

“Hold on,” Derek’s voice pleaded. “Just a little more to go and we’ll be at the truck. Don’t quit on me now, Stiles.”

Stiles’s dad didn’t raise no quitter. No, sir. He was riding this thing out. He was riding this Derek thing out. He was riding this Derek-thing out. He guffawed at his own joke, but it came out more like a faint huff. The Derek thing nestled him in closer to his chest and Stiles squawked out his discomfort at this move. His body creaked in protest, but he didn’t pass out. He hung in there like the not-quitter that he was. His head throbbed. The bouncing and jangling stopped and then he was being manhandled into a one-armed bear hug and swung from side to side in what he considered very violent motions. Something creaked and groaned, and he was fairly certain that it wasn’t him that time. His body tingled from tip to toe.

He was nestled into a sitting position on something smooth and cool that clung to his aching, stinging back and thighs. He let his head slump back and his eye close. He wasn’t a quitter, but the chair was comfortable and rest wasn’t the same thing as quitting, surely. If he took shallow breaths, breathing was even easier for him. His head felt fuzzy and light, like a balloon that had been filled with too much helium. The creaking and groaning happened again, and he was absolutely sure that it hadn’t been him. Something slammed loudly next to him, but he was too comfortable to care. 

Something rumbled in the distance and his back pocket vibrated. Was Scott calling him? He thought he should maybe reach around and answer the call, but he wasn’t sure if he had hands, so he didn’t think he could do it. Scott would understand. He would get that Stiles couldn’t answer his phone if he didn’t have hands. He told Scott he was sorry that he didn’t have hands, but he didn’t recognize the voice that was mumbling random consonants while he was trying to speak.

“Just hold on, Stiles. It’s gonna be okay. You’re out. I’m gonna get you better.”

That was Derek’s voice. When did Derek get there? His whole ass was vibrating. He didn’t remember getting a phone as wide as his whole ass. At least he was finally warm—like, really warm. It was so nice to be comfortable again. He sunk into the warm, like it was a bath drawn just for him. A bubble bath in a nice, deep bath tub with really big, really foamy bubbles that were pink and purple and red and smelled like copper and tasted like dirt. He floated underneath the bubbles, underneath the water, listening to Derek’s voice as it grew more and more distant. That Derek, always running away.

\---

He came to on something bouncy and fuzzy and soft and deep. It cushioned around him from underneath, just barely coming up on either side of him. The yarn blanket covering him itched terribly and it was hot, like the seventh level of Hell hot. Someone was in the room with him, breathing heavily. They were apparently also holding an analog clock right next to his ear in an effort to drive him even crazier, which was working because the incessant ticking was going to make him kill somebody. His captors should have tried that method of torture. 

He bolted up, tangling himself in what were apparently multiple blankets and thrashing several pillows off the couch—which brought the whole bouncy, fuzzy, soft thing into some sort of sense—and onto the floor. Where were his captors? How had he gotten away? Where the hell was he?! His heart danced a cha-cha while he tried to figure out where he was and who else was having heart palpitations to match his own. It was dark in the room, dark outside if the moonlight streaming through the windows still meant anything in Stiles’s world, and he was clearly in a living room of some sort. The unknown living room was definitely several steps up from the storage unit they’d been slowly killing him in, but he’d never been there before. Also, the blankets were terrible and it smelled weird, like patchouli musk and wet dog and, and, and…He inhaled deeply through his nose, his nostrils flaring. And sticky black tar. That was the other smell. It was weird. It was better than being electrocuted in a storage unit while nobody else noticed that you were missing, but it was still weird, and it was stressing him out. A low-pitched whine carried through the air and he realized that it had come from him. He’d never made a noise like that before. He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d just made that noise then.

Movement erupted from the chair next to the couch he was tangled up on. Derek Hale sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and let loose a low-pitched whine in return. He stared at Stiles, his eyes pleading for Stiles to…god, Stiles didn’t even know, but he could tell they were pleading for him to do something. There was pleading happening there. They looked all sad and droopy and desperate, his mouth all frowny and his cheeks all gaunt and sad. The worry creases across his forehead were worrying. The whine Derek emitted itched its way down Stiles’s back. He kicked the blankets off him and tried to stand up, needing to get over to Derek and— _what the hell?_

Derek hung his head, one of his hands wrapping around the back of his neck and gripping for dear life. He sighed, the weight of the world contained in that single exhalation. “I—I had to, Stiles. I’d say I’m sorry, I’d apologize, but I’m not. I’m not sorry. I had to. There wasn’t any other choice. There wasn’t any other way. I stand by my decision. I would do it again. I get it if you’d rather be with Scott--”

The stink in the room changed, the smell of tobacco smoke and salt overwhelming everything else. Stiles wanted to retch. He blinked and shook his head, interrupting Derek. “Woah, man. I have no idea what you’re going on about, but what is with the smells in this place? Oh my god! Also, are you real? Like, really real? Because I’ve got to tell you, they gave me Scott once before and then had him puncture and flay me--” 

He should be dead. He realized that literally, he should be dead. Forget the punctures to his torso and the flaying of the skin on the bicep of the arm that he was waving and pointing at Derek…He was using the arm that they’d damaged so badly. What was going on? He looked down at his arm. It was covered in the long sleeve of a beige waffle Henley that did not belong to him. He was dressed and able to use his arm. He kicked up his left leg and looked at his foot. It looked like a normal foot with five normal toes. He wiggled those five normal toes and there was no pain whatsoever. There should have been massive pain. Those five toes should not have wiggled. That foot should not have been normal. He could remember in vivid detail them smashing it with something heavy and metal. Was he dead? Did that mean that Derek was dead, too?

“Holy shit, Derek, did you die in the last couple of years? How did you die? Why did you let yourself die?! You were totally not supposed to die, you ass! I know that we weren’t particularly close because you didn’t particularly like me or want to be around me or want to breathe the same air as me, but I don’t thin--”

“Stiles! Stiles. I’m not dead. I’m alive and fine and you’re…alive and we’ll figure this out. I’m here, and I’ll be here, and I’ll get you home if that’s what you need and I’ll help in any way I can and I still stand by my decision and I would still do it again.”

Stiles breathed in, but through his mouth this time. The Henley tingled against his skin every time he moved his upper body, sending little jolts of pleasure into his brain. The subtle weave and the light cotton soothed him like a sigh wrapped around his body. He sank back into the couch, the fuzzy fabric of the couch rubbing against his short hair and leaving him feeling like a child who’d just discovered the joys of balloons and static electricity. “I need you to tell me what you’re talking about, and for the record, I’m glad we’re not dead.” He rubbed the back of his head against the back of the couch, not caring how ridiculous it looked. It felt good and new and relaxing and he let out a sigh of pleasure that almost sounded like a weird sort of growl. His vocal cords were apparently still broken.

Derek chuckled and sat back in his chair. “Try rubbing your cheek on it. It’s amazing. You’ll love it.”

Stiles looked over at him and raised an eyebrow. Derek made one of those “go ahead” motions with one of his hands, so Stiles shrugged and went ahead. He rested his left cheek against the fuzzy fabric, enjoying that it felt both warm and cool against his skin. 

“Lightly,” Derek cautioned. Stiles nuzzled the back of the couch, not dwelling on what kind of freak he had apparently turned into after kidnapping and unknown hours of torture. The fabric swayed against his cheek and he could feel every strand, every fiber that was wrapped around itself as it caressed his skin. A smile spread across his face and he closed his eyes…both of them. He had use of both eyes. He opened both eyes and sat up, looking expectantly at Derek.

The smile fell from Derek’s face. “I had to,” he whispered. He had a suspicion about what Derek did, but he asked anyway. The damn wolf could tell him, at least, if he'd done what Stiles thought he'd done. At least he wasn't dead. That was a bonus. “What did you do? I’m not gonna be mad, Der. I didn’t want to die…Well, I mean, I did during the torture, but I didn’t want to die before I found out what terrible things felt like and now I’m not making sense and you should probably intervene and growl at me and tell me to shut up and oh god, what is _that_ face for?”

Derek was pursing his lips, obviously biting at the insides of them. His eyes were moving constantly, looking at everything but Stiles. The smell of stale cotton candy filled the air. He did do it. “You did, didn’t you? It’s okay. I—I can’t say that I’m particularly pleased at the prospect of--”

“It’s not a prospect at this point, Stiles. You woke up. You’re healed. You’re answering me. You’re—apparently much more tactile than you were. It’s a thing.” Derek’s eyes flashed alpha red. A tremor ran through Stiles, a sort of anticipation and excitement that he’d never felt before. The world flashed grayscale, Derek on the chair next to him the one bright spot in the room, glowing like some sort of Biblical angel or something. How did his eyes flash alpha red? He wasn’t an alpha anymore.

“You’re my beta, Stiles.”

As far as the events of his week went, this one actually ranked pretty high. And he’d always been dead set against becoming a wolf. He took yet another moment to wonder how this had become his life. “Well, on the upside, I’m alive and I’m not being burned or electrocuted or waterboarded, so I’ll take it.” Stiles offered Derek a weak smile and Derek returned it with a weak smile of his own.

“You don’t have to officially submit to me, you know. You can head back to Beacon Hills, submit to Scott. I won’t call to you. I won’t fight it. I’ll take you there myself if you want. I want you to be happy—as happy as you can be now. I know this isn’t what you wanted, but I couldn’t let you die. You mean too much to—to Scott.” 

Whiskey. The scent was so strong he could taste it. _Chemo signals_. All those weird smells in the air were Derek. They were scents Stiles knew, scents from memories he’d always associated with strong emotions. Derek was lying. “Which part of that last statement was untrue, Alpha Mine?”

Derek shook his head. “You should go back to Scott, Stiles. You’ll be happier there.”

That was his answer, then. The first part of Derek’s statement was 100% accurate. Stiles could do this. He could figure this thing out. He moved slightly forward and his jeans scraped over his legs. It felt like the hair on his legs was being pulled with tweezers. He winced slightly. “Will the sensitivity die down soon?”

“What do you mean?”

“The touch, the sound. Don’t think I haven’t noticed that your voice is softer than normal, Derek, and I can see remarkably well considering there isn’t a light on in this place.”

Derek smiled at him and moved over to the couch, settling in next to him. “Not really. You’ll get more used to it. You’ll learn how to manage it. It’s actually a really useful thing once you get the hang of it. You’ll want to stay away from especially bright lights and noisy, crowded places for the next little while, and softer materials are going to be better, but when you learn to manage it those advanced senses will give you a tactical advantage.”

Stiles snorted. “I’m pretty sure I was going to college in order to never need tactical advantage again.”

Derek settled a hand on Stiles’s knee. Stiles let him. This was his first human touch since he’d turned. It didn’t feel any different. It felt normal and comforting. Stiles wanted to settle himself in toward it. 

“I know, and again, I’m sorry I turned that plan sideways, but I’m glad you’re alive. Especially since you were only in that place because of me. I didn’t know they’d try something like that, or I’d have just killed them instead of trying to turn spy. I swear.”

Stiles decided to embrace the _fuck it_ way of the wolf and settle into the one person who came looking for him when he was missing. Comfort was comfort, especially when you were recovering from torture and had just been turned into a werewolf. “Why were they after you? Why did they think I knew where you were? Why are you an alpha again?”

Derek lifted the hand he’d had on Stiles’s knee and wrapped it around Stiles’s shoulders instead, pulling him in so he was more comfortable. “I took something that they seem to think belongs to them a while ago. They want it back. I don’t think they should have it back. They thought you’d know where I was because we’d spent a good portion of your high school career saving each other’s asses, I would imagine. That’s why I would think you knew where I was if I was them. If you think about it, it would make a certain sense that you would be the one they suspected. We were always the two grown-ups of that group, really.”

Stiles looked over at Derek like he’d lost his mind. Derek Hale was a lot of things—mischievous, devious, easily annoyed, growly, generally broody—but “grown-up” would not be a phrase that Stiles would immediately use in reference to him. He’d use _grown-up_ just as quickly as he’d use _emotionally stable_ and _happy_ , which is to say hardly ever.

Derek stuck his tongue out at him. Again, Stiles would not use the phrase grown-up as a valid descriptor. It was kind of awesome that they were communicating with each other using only facial expressions and Derek hadn’t hurled him at a wall yet, though. “So,” Stiles countered, “you’re all grown up now, then?”

Derek laughed. “I’m more grown up than I was, yeah. I’d like to think I’ve learned something in two and a half years, anyway. You still transferring next year?”

Stiles sighed. He was all set to transfer to Stanford next year. He loved Berkley, but it was _Stanford_ , and his dad had gotten that loan to get him there and everything. Now, though…He did NOT want to end up at community college while he adjusted to being hairy and having a time of the month. “So long as this werewolf thing doesn’t get in my way.”

“Do you want to go back home, be in the Beacon Hills pack?”

Stiles sighed and laid back against Derek’s armpit, which was much more comfortable than it had any right being. “I don’t know. I love Scott. He’s practically my brother. I just don’t know how I feel about the prospect of him being my alpha. And that feels traitorous to even think, much less say out loud, but there it is. He’s great, and he’s good, and he means so well, but I just don’t know.”

Derek looked out the window and that smell of stale cotton candy was back. “You could…stay. With me, I mean. I could be your alpha. I’ve gotten better. I’ve learned more, I’ve done more. I have a pack. It’s in northern California, not far from Stanford, actually. You could stay. I could teach you. I could take care of you. I would.”

Stiles watched him as he continued looking out the window, his jaw twitching so slightly Stiles wondered if he would have picked it up before. He looked older than he had; obviously, he’d gained two and a half physical years, but there was a firmness to his mouth and a crease to his brow line that hadn’t been there before. He wondered what Derek had been through since they parted ways. He wondered how Derek was an alpha again. “Where have you been? How can you be an alpha now?”

Derek glanced over at him, obviously not having expected that question. “All over, really. I traveled in the Middle East just after I left you guys in Mexico--explored myself in the desert, if you will. Did you know that wizards out there have a ritual to gain back powers lost selflessly? I did not before the homeless guy I’d been helping for a bit offered it to me. I spent some time in India, too, working fields with peasants. I settled in northern California about six months ago, formed a decent-size pack, gained some territory—fought some battles, won a war.”

“Everyone forgot about me,” Stiles responded.

Derek looked confused. The scent of still-warm cinnamon shortbread cookies broke over Stiles like a tsunami. 

“Last year. There were ghost riders stealing people’s souls, it was a whole thing. When they took me, everyone forgot who I was. I’d been wiped out of their memories, like I’d never existed. It was terrifying, and I always thought nothing would ever be worse than that, ever. However long I was in that storage unit? That was worse. I wished for death. I prayed for death as I was actually being killed slowly, and it seemed like everyone had forgotten about me again. Then you came in, even though I didn’t actually believe it was really you, and you saved me, and you promised me that you’d make it alright, and then you made it alright. You’ve always kept your word, Derek. Always. You’ve always done what needed to be done with no hesitation, no remorse for doing it. I want to stay with you. I don’t know how I’m going to break it to Scott, or my dad for that matter, but I want to stay with you.”

Derek continued staring out the window. “Twenty-two days.”

It was Stiles’s turn to be confused. “Twenty-two days” was an odd response to Stiles claiming Derek as his alpha. Had Stiles not done it right? Scott had always just sort of assumed that any wolves in the area were in his pack. There had been no need for them to declare him their alpha or anything. “What?”

“You were in that storage unit for twenty-two days, Stiles. It’s almost Christmas. It took me a week to figure out where they had you when I realized they’d taken you and then another one to figure out how to successfully get in there and get you out. I’m sorry it took me a week to realize they’d taken you. It won’t happen again.” Derek’s eyes flashed red. 

“Where’s everybody else?”

Derek shrugged. “Your dad’s in Mexico looking for you because he refused to believe me when I told him you were in Montana. They were apparently smart enough to send him some sort of card postmarked from Mexico that looked like it was from you. Scott and his pack are dealing with something in Beacon Hills and apparently can’t get away…But I’m sure it’s probably life and death, Stiles.”

Stiles snorted. It probably wasn’t. Scott was a good friend. Scott was like his brother. Scott would drop almost anything to help Stiles if he needed it—unless he felt like something bad was going down in his territory. At that point, that became the most important thing on the planet, even if it was just a proverbial pissing match, which was why Derek was a better choice for alpha. It kinda hurt that Scott hadn’t come to get him out of being waterboarded, though. 

“So, we’re in Montana?” Stiles decided to latch onto the part of Derek’s statement that allowed for maximum emotional detachment and run with it. Derek let him do that. Derek was going to be a great alpha. “No. After I gave you the bite, I drove us the hell out of there. We’re in Colorado now. We’re safe here for the night, and we’ll head off tomorrow morning, regroup, and grab the rest of the pack before we decide what to do next if that works for you.”

Stiles had no idea what to do with that statement. Derek just asked him if he was okay with an idea. Derek hadn’t growled at him even once. Stiles was fairly certain that he was actually out of the torture chamber and that it was Derek Hale talking to him, but this Derek was…nicer? 

“Will you tell me about the rest of your pack?”

Derek smiled at him, his whole face softening. The creases and lines disappeared and dimples appeared in his cheeks. Derek Hale had dimples. Okay, then. “ _Our_ pack, Stiles, and of course I will. What would you like to know?”

What did Stiles want to know? Stiles wanted to know everything. He didn’t even know where to begin. He was actually a legitimate part of this pack. He wasn’t a tagalong. He wasn’t a friend of one of the betas. He belonged to this pack. He belonged…to Derek. He licked his lips and tapped his fingers against his thigh in a quick, even 1-2-3 rhythm. He hadn’t enjoyed “belonging to” Malia in high school, but she was still working out how to be a person, so that was different. She’d also decided that he was her mate, so that was very different. He and his dad had belonged to each other in that father-son way, but they’d always been sort of loose in their interpretation of how that worked. Scott had never really claimed a hold on him in one way or another despite being his best friend and like a brother to him. He’d always let Stiles do his own thing, even though he rarely did, and Scott kept his own friends, his pack, who were closer to him than they were to Stiles. That was fine with Stiles. They were still best friends.

“How many wolves are in your pack?”

“ _Our_ pack, Stiles. Our pack. I’ve got about ten betas, ranging in age from about seventeen to thirty-five—well, eleven now with you. Most of them are males, but we’ve got about four females. One of them is the seventeen year old; she’s unbonded. The rest of them are in bonded pairs in-pack.”

“Do you have much territory? Where in northern California are you located?”

Derek pulled him in even closer, rubbing his cheek against the top of Stiles’s head—scent marking him? Was Derek scent marking him?

“I told you, we’re not far from Stanford, so your family will be close to you when you start there next year. In the meantime, I can stay with you in Berkley while you get used to being a wolf if you want. I can talk to the local alpha, make sure everything will be okay, that you’ll be safe. Everything will be alright. 

“We’ve got some wooded acreage I bought with the money from the sale of those buildings I owned in Beacon Hills, and we’ve built a small commune of trailers and cabins to live in out there. It’s nice, really—peaceful for a change. I’ve got a large pack house going up near the front of the land. As alpha, my family and I will live there. It should be adequate when it’s done; it’ll have a separate library room and a couple studies as well as a war room…Since it’s still going up, can you think of anything else you would want in a house like that room-wise?”

“A game room would be awesome! A pool table, some old school arcade games, and a huge TV with game consoles. Man, I’d spend most of my waking hours between a game room and a library.” Stiles laughed and then crinkled his brow line as he wondered why Derek would ask him a question like that. “Why would you care what I would want to see in your house?”

Derek smiled down at him and then pushed his head against his chest. Stiles felt the steady, smooth heartbeat of his alpha and the whole world felt warm and right, like nothing bad could possibly ever happen again. “I told you, Stiles. It’s going to be a pack house, not just my house. I want everyone in my pack to be comfortable there, to spend time there, to hang out there often, and you’re in my pack. I also figured that you’d need somewhere to stay during school breaks or if you got sick of living on campus, and my place is now your place if you’re interested. You’re family. I’ll add a game room. It’s going to need to have a foosball table too, though, and probably air hockey, and you’re going to have to experience me kicking your ass at them pretty often.”

Stiles smiled into his nestled spot against Derek’s chest. “That’s pretty big talk for someone who’s never had the pleasure of me handing him his ass in air hockey before. I’ll bet you anything I can take you.”

Derek sat forward slightly and looked down at him, a slightly mischievous gleam in his blue eyes. “Anything?” 

Stiles wasn’t sure he liked that gleam in Derek’s eyes. He didn’t know what to make of that gleam. “Sure, man. Anything. I can take you.”

Derek grinned. It was a flat-out grin. There was no other word for that expression—it wasn’t one of his usual smirks, it wasn’t a sly smile, it wasn’t a mysterious quirk of his lips, it wasn’t a pout. It was a full-on grin, dimples and everything. Stiles began to seriously wonder if he and Scott should have just joined up with Derek officially way back when. This Derek was pretty great to be around. “Great. Winner claims prize at the end of the game, then. Let’s go.” He pushed Stiles gently into an upright position and stood up before extending a hand to help Stiles to his feet. 

Stiles jumped up, a new spring in his step. Absolutely nothing hurt anymore; he felt like he could run a marathon. “Where we going, Alpha Mine?”

“There’s a low-key bar down the street with an air hockey table. I’m gonna kick your ass and then claim my win. You better be ready to deliver what I want.” Derek actually winked at him. Stiles stood, slightly flabbergasted, and stared at him for a few seconds before his brain kicked in. “Wait, won’t those people who took me be out looking for us? They were looking for you, you know…Who were they?”

Derek winced. “They’re an unpleasant splinter cell of a group of hunters that don’t follow the same code as Chris and his group. These hunters enjoy killing supernatural creatures of all kinds simply for the crime of being not human, and the splinter cell will kill humans who knowingly associate with supernatural creatures. I took a relic that they never should have had, something sacred to our kind, and they’re looking to get it back and take out an alpha at the same time if they can. They knew that you and I worked together in Beacon Hills, and they apparently didn’t get the memo that we all went our separate ways years ago.”

Stiles wrinkled his nose. That sounded like something Derek would do, antagonizing particularly hostile hunters just because he could. “Oh. That makes me think even more strongly that we probably shouldn’t be playing air hockey at the local watering hole after just escaping them, then.” 

Derek smiled. “They were holding you in Montana, remember? We’re fine here.”

Stiles pulled up a mental map of the US. Things weren’t adding up. “How long was I out?”

“Four days, but that’s not uncommon. You were really fucked up, on death’s door. You’re really not mad at me?”

Stiles was getting the hang of this emotional scent thing. He could smell Derek’s fear and uncertainty. He knew it was fear and uncertainty now. He smiled at his alpha. “I’m really not mad at you, Derek. You got me out of that hell hole alive and well, which I was really sure wasn’t possible. As far as I’m concerned, you are a miracle from the heavens, Derek Hale. This chemo signal thing—is it the same for everyone?”

Derek quirked an eyebrow. “What are you smelling?”

“Stale cotton candy.”

Derek guffawed. “Only you would associate apprehension with cotton candy.”

Stiles didn’t think it was that weird. Cotton candy came with the state fair, and the state fair had those crazy rides that could fly apart at any moment that Scott would always insist they ride on and Stiles was just sure would end up leading them to their death but would ride them anyway because Scott wanted to. Stale cotton candy meant fear and uncertainty.

“For me, apprehension smells like cheap cognac and that Love’s Baby Soft perfume that was so popular when I was younger. Everyone smells different things to signal the different emotions and states they pick up, but the smells are going to be the same for you no matter who or what you’re sniffing, if that makes sense. Every time you smell that stale cotton candy, you’re picking up on the apprehension coming off someone or pervading the air around you…or you’re smelling actual cotton candy—one of the two.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious. So, the cotton candy isn’t exclusive to you. If Scott is anxious or apprehensive, I’ll pick the same smells up off him, too?”

“Exactly.”

Stiles nodded. That made sense. He just had to keep a running catalog in his head. He could do that. “And the oversensitivity is a part of the wolf thing? I knew Scott could hear, like, everything and had great night vision, but he never mentioned the extra sensitivity with touch, smell, and taste.”

“You haven’t even tasted anything yet, Stiles.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “I can taste everything, Derek. I don’t need to stick it in my mouth to taste it, man. You’re sweating. It tastes like salt and cold, deep soil. That’s what it smells like, too, though the cotton candy smell is super strong. Either you shifted in here or a previous tenant had a dog. It smells like wet dog and tastes like mold and dirt and mud--”

Derek cut him off. “What kind of dog?”

Stiles blinked, his brain scrambling to catch up with the question. “What?”

Derek sat back down. “You said I either shifted in here or there was a dog in here. Can you tell what kind of dog? Smell. Taste. Touch if you think it will help. Investigate.”

It seemed like an odd question, but it would make an interesting test of his senses. He wondered if Derek had brought a dog in to test him. It seemed a little outlandish, but Stiles had no idea how werewolf tests worked. He’d never actually seen a werewolf test before. He wasn’t sure that Scott knew werewolf tests were a thing. He may have to have Derek teach Scott how to alpha. He could be an intermediary. It could work. They could make that work. Then Scott could be as good an alpha as he was a friend and wolf. Stiles was with Derek, and he would stay with Derek, but then Scott could actually grow his pack effectively—eleven wolves seemed really big to Stiles, but Derek didn’t seem very impressed with the number.

“Is eleven considered a small pack?”

Derek looked up from the magazine he’d picked up off the end table. “What does that have to do with the type of dog that occupied this space, Stiles?”

Stiles looked around, paying attention to the dust piled up in one corner of the room. Small hairs intermingled with the dust and debris, medium length and golden blond. He sniffed again, flaring his nostrils and taking in a deep waft of wet, moldy dog and a slight whiff of ammonia—urine. He sniffed again, zeroing in on the faint urine scent. Something clicked in his brain. “It was a golden retriever. Is eleven considered a small pack?”

Derek put the magazine down. “God damn. How’d you do that, exactly? And yes, eleven is a smaller pack if the pack is stationary. We’re still building.”

Stiles sat down on the arm of Derek’s chair, resting his interlaced fingers against the arm underneath him and looking at Derek. “I used my senses, like you told me. The hairs stuck in the dust in the corner were medium length and golden blond. The dog smell was wet and moldy, so it was a dog that enjoyed the water. There’s still a hint of its urine somewhere in this room, too, and I have no idea how, but a piece of my brain was able to connect that scent to ‘retriever.’ Hence, a golden retriever occupied this place. What do you mean ‘if the pack is stationary’?”

Derek closed his eyes and shook his head quickly, his eyebrows raising. He snorted to himself. “Of course you’re a tracker. Why would you not be? You always enjoyed researching.”

Stiles put a hand on Derek’s shoulder. “I’m going to demand answers to every question I ask when I kick your ass at air hockey.”

“Ha! There are two different basic types of pack: stationary packs and roving packs. You’ve seen both in your time in Beacon Hills. The Beacon Hills pack is obviously a stationary pack. They have a home base, they stick to their home base, they defend their territory, they stay put. They grow their numbers, usually through alliances and breeding, they grow their territory through treaties and battles, and they keep everything in their territory safe and normal. The second type is the roving pack. The alpha pack was an example of a roving pack. Roving packs aren’t normally so violent and homicidal; they’re like smaller, more portable versions of stationary packs. They wander, settling in one place only long enough to build some money so they can travel more. They aren’t interested in growing their numbers or establishing territories.”

Ugh. Werewolves made no sense to Stiles. They never did. “What is the point of roving packs, then?”

Derek chuckled. “Roving packs don’t have a point. They’re usually smaller family groups or groups of close friends that don’t want to settle down and deal with the hassles of formal pack life but still pack up for safety. Look at it this way: Stationary packs are like legacy packs. They want to create something that will live on past them for generations to come, something that lives and grows by itself. Roving packs are close friends and family that want to survive and stay safe and know that omegas aren’t safe out there for long. What do you say we continue this conversation over some beers and air hockey down the street?”

“I say that sounds like a good plan to me, sir. Lead the way.”

~~~

Derek the Alpha bought drinks for Stiles. Stiles thought back to high school and Derek the growly, punchy, scary werewolf. He doubted that Derek would have bought drinks for Stiles. Not even that one weekend. Stiles sipped at his beer and smiled at where his life had landed him for a change. This was going to be okay. Derek was actually teaching him things. He didn’t know Derek could do that. There was quite a bit he didn’t know about Derek, he was coming to find out. He’d been so unfair in the past. 

“So, before I completely obliterate you at air hockey, I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry.”

Derek set down his pint glass and glanced at Stiles. “What do you mean? I don’t think there’s anything you need to apologize for.”

Stiles stared into his beer and wrinkled his nose. “There’s plenty I need to apologize for where you’re concerned. I spent a lot of years misjudging you.”

Derek smiled, his eyes and mouth both soft at the corners. “I doubt it. I was absolute shit in Beacon Hills. It was toxic for me, and I was toxic for it. I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t know how to be an alpha. I didn’t know what it meant to i _be_ an alpha. I was never meant to be one, you know. Laura was supposed to assume control of the pack. I was still reeling from the loss of everyone and everything, still locked away in the past. I was staring the past in the face, staring my terrible life choices in the face every day I was there. I should never have stayed after I dealt with finding Laura. I should never have assumed the power of the Beacon Hills pack. I wasn’t ready and had nobody to show me, and I know that, but you have to understand that Peter had to be put down. There was absolutely no question about that. He could not live, and Scott was even less ready for the power of the Beacon Hills pack than I was. Nobody knew if the old wives’ tale about killing the alpha who turned you reversing the gift was true, and I couldn’t take the chance that it wasn’t. It would have ended on an even worse note than it did if I hadn’t assumed the alpha position, Stiles.”

Stiles could actually taste Derek’s remorse. “Der, you did the best you could. You spoke honestly, you kept your word, you delivered on promises that you made, you did what you could to keep your pack safe even though they were teenagers bent on being teenagers first and pack second, and you worked with whomever you had to work with to get things done and problems solved. You’re not exactly an older, experienced wolf yourself. You work with what you have. You certainly seem to have more to work with now.” Stiles took another drink of his beer to wash the taste of peanuts and flat soda out of his mouth. 

“I’ve learned a few things in the past few years, yeah. I’ve had good people to turn to, the support of older, well-established families that knew mine before the fire. One of our pack sisters is a psychiatrist, believe it or not, and she’s been forcing me to actually deal with myself. It’s been…difficult, to say the least. I think you two are probably going to get on like a, well...like a house on fire.” Derek snickered at his own joke. Stiles rolled his eyes and shook his head, sucking on his teeth.

“Oh, come on. It was pretty good. Admit it. And I’ve grown so much, being able to make that joke and everything.” Derek winked at him again. The winking thing was sort of freaking Stiles out. He knew how to react to Derek throwing him against a wall and growling at him. He didn’t know what to do when Derek winked at him.

“Relax, Stiles. Drink your beer. I’m not going to go off the deep end and start maiming people because houses and fire were mentioned. I was the one mentioning them.”

That didn’t actually help Stiles any. He was glad that Derek had apparently had this wonderful psychological breakthrough, but he was still winking at Stiles. _Winking_ at him, like Stiles was someone he’d actually consider flirting with. Images and remembered sensations from that weekend flashed through his mind, warming his fingertips and flushing his cheeks. Derek closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, slouching back into his chair and smiling. The flush on Stiles’s cheeks spread over the rest of his face and he chugged his beer. He knew what Derek was smelling. He stunk of it right then. It seemed that his damn brain worked the same whether he was human or supernatural. 

“That’s nice, too,” Derek chimed in. God, did that not help anything. 

Stiles set his empty pint glass on the table. “Are we playing air hockey or not?”

Derek stood up. “We are. Let’s go do that so that I can kick your ass and claim my prize.”

Stiles followed him over to the table. “Those are some serious words, my friend. I hope you can live up to them.” Stiles winked at Derek. Maybe that would freak him out as much as the winking freaked Stiles out. Derek just grinned back at him. “Just you wait, Stiles. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

Derek was as good as his word yet again. He won the first game in ten minutes, and Stiles challenged him to best three out of five. He won the next two games even though Stiles now had enhanced speed as well. 

“Okay, what’s your secret? I’m just as quick as you are now.”

Derek chuckled. “You’re not, actually. That’s my secret—I’m the alpha. The bigger my pack gets, the better my reflexes are, the better my senses are, and the faster and stronger I am. You just added one more to my numbers, bringing me up another notch, and air hockey has always been one of my favorites, so I’ve had a lot of practice. Now, unless you’re gonna go nine out of ten, I believe I won.”

Stiles huffed. “You won. I will admit that. So, what’s it gonna be?”

Derek walked around the table and stood next to Stiles, resting one hand over one of his. “Another chance.”

Stiles looked down at Derek’s hand over his, swallowing against his suddenly dry throat. Derek couldn’t possibly mean what Stiles was pondering. There had hardly been a first chance, and it had been Derek who hadn’t wanted that. It had been Derek who had practically fled from Stiles, who had avoided him after…well, who had avoided him until he fucked off for good. Stiles looked up into Derek’s eyes, hoping his confusion was evident to his alpha.

“I was fucked up then in so many ways, Stiles. I didn’t--I couldn’t--I didn’t know how to…You were a kid then, a human who didn’t even want to be in my pack. How could you want me as a mate if you weren’t interested in me as an alpha? I couldn’t expect you to want to settle down, to want to mate, and then Malia came and she...I had no idea what I was doing. I told you, I was toxic in Beacon Hills.” Derek shot him a weak smile. “I didn’t know how to want a relationship, how to be in a relationship at all, let alone a relationship with another male. I was afraid of how it would be perceived, of how it might hurt my new status. I was just afraid, if I’m honest. I’d been burned before, if you will, and avoiding everything slightly emotional seemed like the smart play at the time.” Derek bit lightly at his lower lip and stared at their hands.

Derek’s revelation was a lot to take in. It was so much more mature and thoughtful than the Derek Hale that Stiles had known would have been capable of making. He’d obviously given this some serious thought. Stiles wondered how long Derek had thought about the two of them, how long he’d wanted it. Had he wanted it since that weekend? Derek had never mentioned his romantic past. Why would he? He’d never let Stiles even close to in before. 

“How?” Stiles asked. “How would a second chance look?”

Derek pursed his lips and then said, “It would look however you wanted it to look. I just want a second chance. On your terms. That’s what I want.”

Stiles could do a second chance with Derek—with this Derek, especially. This Derek might actually let him in. This Derek might not run the first time Stiles wanted to cuddle with him. Stiles could work with this Derek. “How would a romantic thing look with you as my alpha and me as your beta?”

Derek smiled and looked into Stiles’s eyes for the first time since he’d asked for the second chance. The scent of jasmine perfume filled the air. “It would look just like a romantic thing between us would have looked before I bit you. Pack business will still be pack business. You’ll still answer to me when it comes to pack decisions and any fighting that may come up, though I suspect you’ll rise through the ranks pretty quickly without my help. I have no doubt that whether we work out romantically or not, by this time next year you’ll be my second. That’s just who you are.

“Outside of pack business, our relationship will look however you want it to look. I’ll take whatever you’ll give me. I’m not the same stupid young wolf I was. I’m an older, more experienced stupid wolf. I know what an amazing person you are, and I’m willing to work for my chance with you. You tell me what I need to do, and I’ll do it. I want to do this, however this is going to look.”

Stiles nodded and grinned, turning the hand under Derek’s and lacing their fingers together. “Let’s do this, then. You and me. Let’s make this work.”

Derek took a step closer to him. “Just tell me how.”

Stiles looked at him, really taking him in from head to toe. His clothes exuded “tough guy” and confidence. He had on biker boots and blue jeans, his standard black t-shirt and black leather jacket. His standard uniform hadn’t changed over the years, apparently. His hair was still close cropped around the back and sides, a little longer on the top and front than Stiles remembered. His fingers were calloused, denoting quite a bit of manual labor, and there were more wrinkles and crinkles around his eyes and mouth—laugh lines, Stiles realized. This Derek got in there and did the hard work. This Derek wasn’t afraid to laugh. “You really want me to tell you how to make it work, don’t you?”

“I really do.”

His heart skipped a half a beat before resuming its steady, syncopated rhythm. He knew Derek had heard it, so he offered him a smile and a squeeze of their hands so there wouldn’t be any confusion. “Fair enough, Der. I’m not actually sure exactly how to make sure this works, but I can lay out some general guidelines if you want.”

Derek squeezed his hand. “I want. I need, actually. I still don’t really know how to do this healthy relationship thing.”

Stiles laughed. His past relationships had been a nine-year crush that bordered on stalkerish obsession with Lydia Martin and then Malia Tate. “I love how you think that I have a handle on the concept of healthy relationships.”

Derek walked backward, pulling Stiles forward by the hand he held. “Let’s sit back down and talk about it, then.” Stiles let his alpha lead him back to their table and order them another round on him. 

“First,” Stiles started when their beers had arrived, “I need communication. You need to talk to me. I need to know what’s going on in there.” Stiles pointed at Derek’s head. Derek nodded.

“I need you to not just hold it in because you think I’ll be upset or disagree or anything like that. We need to talk, and we need to be honest. You can talk to me about anything, Der. I’ll listen, I’ll help, I’ll do whatever you need, but I need to know what’s going on.

“Second, I’m gonna need to know just how public you want to go with this thing. I’m fine with whatever. I get it, what you said earlier. It hurts to hear, but I get it. I dated a guy for a couple months at the start of the semester that was in the closet. I’d rather not stay that far hidden, but I get it, and I can work with it if I know where we are and where we’ll be in front of other people. If there are certain people that you want to keep us from, that’s fine too. You just need to tell me so we can talk about it. I--”

“I’m all in with this. I don’t care who knows about us. I certainly want our pack to know, and if you want to tell everyone in Beacon Hills, I’ll hold your hand the whole time. I don’t want to hide you. I don’t want to hide the way I feel about you. Saria would skin me if I even suggested it, anyway.”

“Really?” He hadn’t expected a chance at being with Derek where everybody could see. His entire chest sort of fluttered at the thought. His stomach gave a little flip. “You’d—You’d really want to hold hands with me in front of other people?”

Derek pushed his chair out slightly and crooked his fingers, motioning for Stiles to come to him. Stiles quirked an eyebrow and one side of his mouth. Derek huffed out a short laugh and motioned for him to come over again. Stiles did, and Derek wrapped an arm around him, spinning him around and pulling him down into his lap. “I want you in my life. I want you by my side. I want you all by ourselves. I want you in front of people. I want you any way I can get you. I will hold your hand.” Derek grabbed his hand, lacing their fingers together and squeezing. “I will hold you in my arms.” He tightened his arms around Stiles, hugging close against his back. “I will kiss you.” Derek’s lips brushed against Stiles’s cheek, a warm, dry rasp against his flushed skin. “I will do all of this in public, and I will do it as often as you like. I’m here. I’ll be here. I’m in your corner. I’m by your side, Stiles.”

“That’s it, Der. That’s all I can think of. Talk to me and be by my side.”

Those warm, dry lips rasped against his cheek again. “I can do that.”

Stiles snuggled back, nuzzling his head against Derek’s. Derek was so warm. Scott and Malia had always been warm, too. Stiles had always chalked it up to being a wolf thing. He wondered if he was always going to feel warm to the touch now, too. “Tell me what you need from me. I want to know.”

“This, sweetheart. I just need this.”


End file.
